Losing Yourself
by Wind Sy
Summary: Dealing with the past - and the present - can be tough. Coping methods sometimes become more important than the life they are healing.
1. Lilac

The need to escape has always been a strong motivation of mine. "I may run and hide" and all that jazz. I've always been a creative kinda guy, too; I had the best escape plans, where the safest place to hide was, new ways of misdirecting the pickpocket victims, hehe. I used to tell made up stories to the other kids. I found a magazine once, with wonderful pictures of huge creatures that didn't exist on the colonies, beautiful girls in long robes with pointy ears, muscled men with huge axes and swords, backgrounds of lightning and storms, or of vast planes that stretched from life to life. I couldn't read what was written, of course; none of us could. But that didn't stop me from dictating the stories behind the pictures. I used to spend all day crawling the streets, digging in dumpsters, making the stories come alive for me as I pretended that I was the strong men and swift horses, sneaking into the demon strongholds. I would mesmerize the others with the day's exploits, a child's explanation of the evils of the world we lived in. It made it bearable, especially when crouched in a pile of human garbage and rat feces, waiting for the policemen to run past the allyway in hot pursuit of me, the pickpocket extraordinaire. Or, as I saw it, the noble horse-master, handsome and lithe, stealthily evading the bruising orges as he made away with their prize pony. It was my escape, my coping method; my sanity and – in a way – my humanity preserver. There were more than a few feral children on the streets during the occupation years of the L2 cluster.

As I walk through the marketplace, unconsciously picking out marks and unguarded pieces of fruit that I pass (old habits die hard), I find myself trying to lose the present in another fantasy. This one is of considerably more depth than those of my childhood, but still; the escape is the same. The wrinkled lady in a flower print picks up the enchanted potions to turn her into a flame dancing beauty, as bought by the witches behind the counter of the Avon Store. That mad man on the curb side shouts the prophecies of the multi-armed and war-raged gods that shall befall the world of Cocane. And I…well, I could never decide if I were the hero or the damsel in distress. More often than not, I was the babe prince who had been given to the woodsman for safekeeping, turned out on my own by the careless man, and became a thief who stole from the wicked while the royal family searched and mourned for me.

Yeah, right.

The most curious thing about these real world fantasies I find myself in, are the times they choose to appear. Like during my torture in the OZ prison; I wasn't Duo, the terrorist demon child. I was the captured spy on a desperate mission to save the world from exquisite and inevitable evil. Sorta like Frodo, from Lord of the Rings. Except Sam didn't point a gun at Frodo when he came and rescued him from the guard tower in Mordor. Of course, if it had been a direct parallel, I would have suspected something of Heero; but never mind, he didn't shoot me in the long run, and that's what counts, I suppose.

This fantasy is pressing me. I need someplace where I can sit and think. As I pass a small outdoor café, I see a colony bus pass sitting on the table top by an empty plate, across from one man who has his back turned to talk to the people behind him. Perfect. I filch the card and palm it without anyone even glancing over. Too easy. I smile to myself and head towards the nearest bus stop, the pressing of the fantasy becoming an insistent burn on the edge of my mind.

As the years past, the fantasy veneer I placed over my world grew into a deep and unbending trap of visions. Places I've been to in my own head, losing hours or minutes or even days, against my will. I often welcomed it.

The bus has pulled up, and as I climb on it, I glance at the destination; cross-colony, excellent. Nice and long. I head for the back bench of the almost deserted bus, passing graffiti swirls and human stains on my way to my pristine otherworld.

--

Soft footsteps on even softer moss, the black clad figure slid between the patches of green-soft light that filtered through the far up canopy. The air was heavy with the scent of lilacs, the multiple trees hung deep with the cloying blossoms. The push of the wet air and large ferns was like being wrapped in a cloak of green and brown silence, smothering and comforting at the same time; soft green death. The black clad figure paused in his meanderings to caress the long bunches of flowers, an action that would have shocked his former comrades and charges back at headquarters. He smiled ruefully at that thought, breaking the head of blossoms from its branch. He brought it to his lips, feeling the softness and delicacy of the flowers, smelling their now-familiar heaviness. His long-fingered hands plucked a single purple blossom from its fellows, a perfect star among perfect stars. In a bout of playfulness, he grabbed his long shank of hair that hung in a braid, and attached the bunch of flowers to the end, letting the heavy scent cover his clothes and permeate his person as he walked. The man continued on, small and silent, on black clad feet.

He was watched, and knew he was being watched, as the watcher even then knew this. Little pretense was wasted as the stretch and strain of a bowstring being pulled echoed through the silence. The black clad figure paused and slowly raised his head to the green washed trees, where a man sat casually with the bow aimed clearly at the black figure's heart, dressed as if he and the tree were one. With a rueful smile, the man in the tree released the bow with a wooden thwak, as the empty string struck the shaft of the bow. Amused, unflinching and smirking, the figure in black called up; "Nice shot. You forgot the arrow, though." A rustle to the his left, however, made the black clad man smile even wider. "Ah, I see. The Arrow wasn't of wood." He shrugged. "Fair enough." He even continued to smile as the heavy hilt of a sword smashed the side of his head, knocking him unconscious.

--

I jerk back to the bus and the grime splattered windows as a woman of a questionable hygienic nature sat next to me on the bench. I turn my head to look at her; she is staring at me, her black eyes surrounded by yellow thrashed through with the red of broken blood vessels. Old skin, at odds with her shining black hair, sinks the eyes, the mouth, the nose into a cadaver like head. She is voluminous, wrapped in coat, cloak and shawl, smelling of beeswax and shit. I hope she is not someone's grandmother; for that matter, I hope she isn't mine. Who knows. She smiles at me, her teeth strangely pleasant and white, and turns to face the front. I wonder if she was giving me the same scrutiny, if my too-thin frame and luminous eyes bothered her as much as her caved-in face and disturbingly nice teeth bothered me. Both the faces for the nightmares of different people; she scared small children, I scared the soldiers. I smiled at this thought, cruelly, and lost myself as the tug of the day dream found me again.


	2. Emeralds and Mint

_I apologize for what is sure to be some bastardized Italian. Any suggestions would be welcome._

--

The light was still a soft green, if broken and darker, when the man in black woke. The shaft of forest sun broke his lean face in two, turning the strands of hair that covered his forehead from brown to spun copper and gold. His eyelids strained against the intrusion into their private world of lilac and mint-flavoured dreams.

When movement stirred outside the room, the black clad man feigned unconsciousness, hoping to glean information as best he could. The scent of lilacs was still heavy about the room, becoming even stronger as a body approached the man. A soft rustle of bending fabric, a rush of soft air against his ear, and the man in black heard an even softer voice speak in Geric, with a strong Itan accent: "I know you are awake, shadow walker. I have been trained, same as you. Speak in your defense, or find your end without a last sight of the world. You have walked in the Forest of Lilacs, and have seen the path to the Exiles. Either join us Rebels and Heretics, for whatever the reason of your exile, or die as you were bade at your trial."

The man in black slid open one wide eye, rolling it to the side to meet a singular eye as green as the sun kissed leaves of the canopy. The other was covered by a deep sandy coloured shank of hair. An man of Itani, for sure. "I am a soldier of the Gerican Holy Army, a Shadow rank of the assassin division. The name is Duo." He threw out a hand to the green-eyed man, biting back a wince as his head pulsed with the movement. The Itani took the hand, amusement in his look coupled with a despirate hope in his eye. "My name is Trowa. I was a _reconnaissance freccia_ of the Itan _Esercito santo_, Woodsman rank. It would seem we have more in common than a past link to the Holy Cause." He swept his gaze over Duo's body, lingering on Duo's long fingers and small waist. "We were both…highly trained." Duo's eyes widened imperceptibly; Trowa was a Ganymede, an executable offense. He decided to ignore it for the moment; he could use it against the green-eyed man, if need be, later.

Duo swung himself up, taking in the small, circular room as his quick action took Trowa off guard for a moment. The low thatched hut was built around a massive treetrunk, dark wood lit with the gold and green streams of sun from the cut windows in the plank walls. A rush of lilac smell startled Duo, and he jumped back as the flowers still attached to his braid whipped around and hit his face. Duo stumbled and fell heavily on the straw mattress, whooshing up a cloud of swirling dust and loose straw. His head began to swim with the blow from earlier, and from a new voice lending a bell-like laugh at Duo's less than impressive first move.

"Leave him be, Trowa. I think our guest has been startled enough for one day. It's not often that you catch a Shadow off guard, and live. Twice."

Duo rubbed his offending head, and caught sight of the now crushed bunch of lilac blossoms. He ripped them from his braid as the two men chatted away in Itan, a language Duo knew very little of. He thought it rather mean of them to exclude him from what was obviously an amusing conversation, although, as he was the subject of the amusement, he decided otherwise. Just have to pick up on the local gab, Duo thought to himself. Seeing the sidelong looks the other two were giving him, he resolved to learn as quickly as possible.

"The number one rule to staying alive in hostile or undetermined company was knowledge and creativity."

Duo nodded at the old advice, passed to him by his trainer and a scientist with the resistance faction. Dr. G was his name.

Wait, scientist?

--

I caught myself from flying into the bar on the seat in front of me, as my mind ejected itself from the fantasy and the bus lurched to a halt. Sometimes, a close parallel ruins it all. I wait my turn to trudge down the crud-crusted steps of the bus, walking out onto the empty pavement.

I check my watch and grimace; the cross colony must have done its route more than twice, and I had ended up in the part of the colony that resembled my not so distant childhood. Not too far from the safe house, though, so I wasn't too worried. Even in my fantasies, I could take care of myself.

I thought back at the world I was creating for myself. Medieval, for sure. Swords, bows and arrows, thatched roofs and rough wooden planks. The addition of Trowa was a bit of a stretch. A blatantly, openly gay Trowa, at that. I chucked at my imagination's choice of love interest for the leading man: strong, silent, sexy, a little hungry. Hmm, something for a more illicit fantasy, perhaps? Ahahah, Quatre would kill me.

Thinking of Quatre has me wondering about that second voice. Certainly sounded like my blond friend, but I didn't get a good look at him.

I did wonder at the inclusion of being a soldier meant. And the different languages. Who knew I could speak Italian in my head? I doubt it was actually Italian, but you never know. I'll figure it out soon enough. Sleep often offered the most poignant – if confusing – looks into these little fantasies of mine.

I wander past the open alleyways, seeing small, luminous eyes looking back at me, wondering if I'm prey or predator. I stare back at them, and the lights go out in a hurry. I feel for them, but I their problems count for very little against mine; besides, if I could survive, so can they.

I chuckle some more at the thought of Trowa, and the hungry look in his eyes. Did his eyes always have that green shimmer to them? I'll have to check next time I run into him. There are precious few times where I see him during this hellish fighting, but the future still remains.

I finally reach the door to the safe house, a gutted hotel that was filled with more than dead rats when I first got here. I unlock the door and climb over the broken stairwell, through the broken railing to hop the last few stairs (the boards are rotted through; that was an adventure, first time I tried them) and finally up to the one solid door in the entire building. I made the frame from a stolen hybrid of scrap metal: steel and gundanium. Not as strong as my old buddy, but certainly enough to keep out errant cops, homeless men, and standard issue bullets. The door itself is the same, with a lock only I could pick.

I feel safer here than anywhere, and as I throw myself to the dusty, broken, spring mattress, I can already feel my eyes drooping. I never sleep lightly in dangerous places.

The scent of lilac fills me.


End file.
